1/22/01

seven years of shaving and you’d think i would have learned a thing or two. but even with all that practice, it seems i’ll always find a new way to inflict pain upon myself. i’ve surpassed nicks and cuts, but somehow the other morning in the shower, hothot water still working the sleep out of my eyes, i grabbed the razor awkwardly and ended up cutting my fingernail. and not just the nail, but through the nail, and into the tender pink skin beneath. the jagged edges of the torn nail keep jabbing into the wound and the nail itself is providing a lot of unnecessary added pressure. i’ve been contemplating how detrimental it would be to just remove the nail all together to let the damn thing heal in peace, but everyone assures me that’s not a good idea. in any case, it hurts.

(to say the least.)

i made a small gift that i wanted mr. smith to have the other day, and i wanted a card to send to him along with it. so i found myself in the center of card aisles, shifting through “happy chinese new year!” and “congratulations on your successful plastic surgery operation!” and “happy next door neighbor’s nephew’s secretary’s goddaughter’s dog’s vet’s grandfather’s remission from a coma day!” i was drawn into the grievance corner of the department. my eyes hungrily devoured the lacey floral folds of paper containing rhyming quartets of how ohsovery sorry the sender is to hear that the receiver’s child/spouse/entire world has died. i stood there in the middle of the bright fluorescent aisle for a good forty-five minutes, blue light specials echoing in the background, shaking my head and wondering how anyone could actually purchase such generic bullshit, how anyone could feel that such trite sentiments were appropriate for such losses. i can visualize the balding, shiny scalped man sitting at his desk in his crowded hallmark office cubicle with his wrinkled white collar dress shirt, taking time from squeezing his zits to work on the pile of orders flooding his desk, mindlessly regurgitating plastic sympathy to be fed to the masses (he probably works in the office building next to the one where britney spears’ lyricist works). and us, the customers, filing into stores to pay three dollars for emotion and feeling justified, as if we’ve done our parts in helping the situation.

i left the store with empty hands shoved into my pockets, eyes on my feet kicking puddles, jeans collecting rain. i came home and made my own damn card: construction paper and crayola markers and glitter. very kindergarten art class, but at least things were real back then.

my roommate is making her boyfriend a picture frame for valentines day. she’s taking those sweethearts candies (you know, the “be mine” and “i’m yours” heart-shaped things that taste like chalk), coating them in clear fingernail polish (to prevent their deterioration) and gluing them all over a picture frame with a picture of the two of them inside. we poured the contents of the little rectangular packages onto our silver carpet the other day and picked through them. the workers at sweetheart have apparently been doing either a) some technological updating or b) some bill gates ass kissing. along with the classic “i love you”s and “you’re sweet”s there are now “email me”s and “be my icon”s. be my icon?? people need to realize that silicon just isn’t romantic.

kim now has the pastel little candies coated and sitting in a bowl, ready to be glued. i’m toying with the idea of offering them as a treat to whoever makes the grave mistake of wandering into our room next, just to see what happens. how harmful is fingernail polish to one’s digestive system, anyway?

yeh, yeh. i’m evil. whatever.

another obligatory party on friday night. but this one had a spin; a “theme”. if you’re anything like me, that conjures images of prom dances in your mind and makes you nauseous, but set down the barf bag and let me finish, because it was actually pretty damn rad (for the most part). the theme was gangsta paradise and everyone come in blue and red bandanas tied around their heads or yankee caps on askew with blunts and dollar bills protruding from the underneath and wife beaters showing off boxers beneath sagged pants and sharpied “thug life” tattoos and unbelievably gaudy, huge fake gold chains. we all opted for 40s of cheap beer instead of the keg and played old snoop dogg cassettes instead of punk rock cds. there was much exaggerated booty dancing and crypt and bloods hand signs and greetings of “west siiiiiiiiiiiide” and over usage of words like “def”. hilarious, i tell you.

other highlights of the evening:

- a five inch fake gold chain consisting entirely of plated marijuana leaves

- drunken boys voluntarily taking turns having 40oz bottles broken over their heads

- the stripper’s donation fund cup which collected a mind boggling grand total of $1.37

i hate stress. it’s something i had fooled myself into believing that i had left behind in danville, as if i could run away into the mountains to school like it’s some magical swiss resort that could lift the weights right off my shoulders and smooth out the knots in my stomach with the wave of a wand. but there aren’t any masseuses or herbal spas here and the burdens of trying to pay for school with unreliable loans and tedious financial aid processes and increasing amounts of schoolwork and something else i’m too paranoid about to even say aloud, nevertheless write down, are finally catching up with me. and i’m fresh out of places to run away to.

i want:

1. a sewing machine

2. shelves

3. a secretary all my own

4. a thesaurus

5. concert tickets